The Green Years (ARC) Read online

  Gram must have known how it was because she didn’t get me up at dawn like usual. The sun was high and hot when I awoke. As I opened my eyes, my dad’s dreadful story came back to me, and I curled up in my sheets trying to escape the memory. It held me in its grip until finally I could stand it no more. My thirst won out and forced me out of bed. I went to the kitchen for a dipper of cold well water.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Gram said. She looked at me kindly, like she felt sorry for me. I had been pretty sore at her the day before.

  “I’m just on my way over to Lida’s,” she said, “to get us a chicken. You better get dressed and get to the store so Granddad and Ty can come home for dinner.”

  I nodded, still groggy.

  “Harry, I have a little something for you.” She reached for my hand and pressed a fifty-cent piece into my palm. I stared at it blearily.

  “After you finish at the store this noon, maybe you and Carol Ann would like to go roller skating.”

  I looked at her flabbergasted. She had never given me money out of the blue like that. And she never encouraged me to go somewhere just for fun.

  I managed to mumble, “Thanks, Gram.”

  “Have a good time, Harry.”

  I watched out the window as she hurried down the road still in her apron. My mind emerged from sleep, and my dark feelings began to lift. Carol Ann. I needed to see her. I had so much to tell her. I managed to pull on some clothes and hop on my bike to ride to her house.

  We made our plans to go to River Sioux to skate as soon as I could leave the store.

  She said, “I’ll pack a picnic lunch to eat in the park.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll be back about one o’clock.”

  IT WAS A hot, late-summer day and we walked slowly the mile or so to River Sioux carrying the picnic basket between us, talking about nothing in particular, just happy to be together someplace away from home. Our shoes scuffed up the dust, and the wind lifted it into small whorls. Grasshoppers popped up now and then surprising us. The grass in the ditches alongside the road was dusty and dry, and the smell of summer’s end was in the air.

  We passed through the big stone archway for River Sioux Park, and the air to became cooler. We smelled the dampness of the river. Huge cottonwood trees provided shade for the campground where several tents were pitched. Noisy vacationers filled the rental cottages this time of year, their clotheslines waving with towels and bathing suits.

  I had always loved the playground with its swings and merry-go-rounds, and my favorite when I was younger, a tube slide, its slick surface sending you to the ground in a split second. Picnic tables stood in the grassy areas. We set our basket on one to reserve it and walked down to the water. White, sandy beaches lined the river where the water was crystal clear and moving rapidly, even for this time of year. I took my shoes and socks off and waded for a minute to cool myself from the long walk.

  “Try it,” I said to Carol Ann. “It feels great.”

  “I can’t do that,” she said. “Parade around in my bare feet.”

  I wondered at that, seeing as how we had both spent our summers barefoot when we were little kids. She had sure gotten fussy.

  “Oh, come on,” I said.

  Finally she could resist no more and joined me, holding up her skirt and grabbing my arm to steady herself. I splashed my hot face with the water, shooting some at her too.

  “No, you don’t, Harry. I don’t want to get all wet before we go skating.” She ran back and sat down in the shade, leaning against a big tree and watching all the little kids trying to swim. I got our picnic basket and sat with her. We laughed out loud when fat Mr. Tom Crill, the owner of River Sioux, came floating down the river on his back, puffing on a big, black cigar. After a bit, he turned over on his stomach and swam upstream, his cigar still clamped between his teeth. Then he rolled over and floated downriver again. Everybody clapped at his performance.

  “Shall we eat before we skate?” Carol Ann said.

  “Yeah, I’m hungry.” We devoured the hard-boiled eggs, the fresh whole tomatoes warm from the sun, and homemade cinnamon rolls that Carol Ann had packed.

  “My mom made these rolls for Dad to take to the KKK meeting tomorrow night,” she said. “He’s still talking about the convocation and how good this Klavern will be for the town.”

  “Hm. So he joined up?”

  “He sure did. Right there that night. He thinks it’s a wonderful idea. He got his white robe and a big pointed hat. They’re going to meet every Wednesday night at the old pool hall.”

  “What does he think about Sheriff Beaubien?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if he bought into that. He just thinks the KKK will do some good things for the town.”

  “My dad was at the convocation,” I said, “but he was one of the first ones out the door.”

  “Really. I didn’t see him. Did he sign up?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I sure don’t like the way he hates the Catholics. I wish he didn’t.”

  The whole sorry scene yesterday with my dad replayed itself in my mind as we sat there. I began to tell Carol Ann bits and pieces of it. I didn’t mean to, but I just couldn’t help it. The story kept pouring out and pretty soon I had told her the whole thing.

  When I was finally finished, she said, “That’s dreadful, Harry. I feel so sorry for your poor, poor father.” Tears stood in her blue eyes. “He must be miserable.”

  My dad miserable? I hadn’t really thought about it that way. I was the one who was miserable. Sure, a terrible thing had happened to him, but I hadn’t considered his feelings after all these years. We were half mad at him most of the time because he wouldn’t act like he used to. It seemed like he’d made up his mind to be hateful and not behave like our dad.

  “Maybe that’s why he acts the way he does. ‘Cause he just feels so awful inside,” she said.

  I wondered if that kind of misery could make a man turn away from his family, from those who loved him. We would’ve done anything in our power to help him if we had only known what to do.

  “Maybe he needs some happy things to think about. Maybe you should tell him funny stories, jokes,” she said, smiling. “That might get his mind off his trouble.”

  “What kind of jokes?” My mind had been so far away from funny stuff, I couldn’t think of a single one.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She thought for a moment and then said, “What about this one? When somebody asked Rosie how she cured her husband of biting his fingernails, she said, ‘Oh, it was easy. I just hid his false teeth.’”

  I groaned, but I had to smile. Then I thought of one too. “Do you know about Sven? He had a son who came home one day from school and said, ‘Dad, I have the biggest feet in the third grade. Is that because I’m Norwegian? No, Sven said. It’s because you’re nineteen.’”

  We sat there and told each other the silliest jokes we could think of until we were both laughing so hard we had to hold our stomachs. We had about run out of them when the whistle blew at the skating rink meaning it was time for a new round of skating to begin. We gathered up our picnic things, put on our shoes, and headed across the road to the pavilion.

  It was a high-roofed, open-air building that could be closed quickly during rainstorms by bringing up wooden shutters over the screened window openings. What started out as a dance floor had been expanded for roller-skating. A boardwalk under wide eaves provided a walkway where skaters could go to cool off. I marveled how the whole thing was built around a huge cottonwood tree in the center with openings in the roof for its branches.

  I paid our admission and we put on our rented skates. I had been to River Sioux many times, but I never had enough money to skate, so I had just watched the others. But now was my chance, and I didn’t waste a second. We got out on the floor with all the others and began skating counter clockwise around that tree. Carol Ann was pretty good at it and laughed at my awkwardness, but it didn’t take long to get the hang of it.
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  Every so often they would call out a change. “Ladies turn,” or “Gents only.” Sometimes it was for couples, and I put my arm around Carol Ann’s waist and we skated together, leaning into each other and matching our footwork. Late in the afternoon we made a whip. Everyone took hold of hands and formed a long line. We began slowly with the one in the center of the floor barely moving. As we got going, the one on the outside end had to skate faster and faster. Sometimes he had to let go because he just couldn’t skate fast enough. I loved the feeling of the air blowing through my shirt as we picked up speed and got going so fast it seemed like we might take right off into the air.

  Our two and one-half hours were up before we knew it, and we moved breathless to the side to remove our skates. The exhilaration was still with me when we went to the fountain for a long drink of cold water.

  “That was fun,” Carol Ann said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m glad we came out here today ‘cause I’ve got a surprise! Guess what? I’ve got a job!”

  “What do you mean? How could you get a job here?”

  “While you ladies were skating, I got an idea, so I went over and talked to Mr. Crill. I asked him to hire me to be one of the fellows who helps people put on their skates. I could hardly believe it when he said he could use me. I’m supposed to come back tomorrow so he can teach me what to do. It’ll pay ten cents a pair. Maybe I’ll finally have some money for things.”

  “That’s wonderful, Harry. Good for you. Maybe I’ll come out and see you while you’re working. You can put my skates on.” She looked at me with her pretty, flirty smile.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  When we had cooled down some, we got our basket and began to walk home. The sun was low and directly in our eyes as we headed west. We took turns walking backwards to avoid its rays.

  Somehow we got onto the subject of my father again.

  “You know,” Carol Ann said, “If he could get some kind of a job, it might improve his outlook. He might meet people and make some friends.”

  “I don’t know what kind of work he could do with one arm,” I said. “He’s really pretty clumsy with it.”

  “Harry.” She stopped walking and looked at me. “I have an idea. What if he got an artificial arm? You know, the kind that has a hook instead of a hand?”

  I felt a little tingle go through my body. I hadn’t thought of this before, and I wondered if we could make it happen.

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’m going to ask Gram about it. Maybe we can help him get one.” I felt uplifted by this notion. Here was something that might make things better.

  We walked to Carol Ann’s house where I had left my bike. I was so grateful to her, and I liked her so much, I wanted to kiss her. But it was broad daylight, and her little brother, Jerry, was outside playing. So we said a slow goodbye, and I headed home, my mind full of this new idea for Dad.

  As I rode by the school, I saw a little knot of boys and heard some shouting and crying. I rode up and jumped off my bike. “What’s going on?” I yelled. Don Beaubien was on the ground and Corky Burris was on his back, punching him. Howie Mines was urging him on. Both of them were awful bullies.

  “That’ll teach you, you dirty mackerel snapper,” Corky said.

  “You took care of him,” Howie crowed.

  A couple of Don’s little brothers were standing nearby crying.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “Get off him, Corky.”

  “Oh, mind your own business, Harry,” he said, but he got up. He and Howie got on their bikes and high-tailed it away.

  I helped Don get up. His nose was bleeding and it looked like he’d taken a hit on the side of his head.

  “Why were they beating on you, Don?”

  He looked at me, and tears started to roll down his dirty face.

  “They said my dad stole money. They said the preacher told everybody at the church last Sunday night. My dad never stole anything from anybody, Harry. I was so mad I punched Corky, but I couldn’t handle the two of them.” He wiped his face and turned to his brothers. “C’mon, boys. Let’s go home.”

  I remembered what the minister had said and was sickened by the ugliness his words had caused.

  “Don,” I called out to him. “That’s not exactly what he said.”

  He waved sadly at me as he walked away. “Thanks, Harry. It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did matter. What that minister said about Don’s dad wasn’t right, no matter what good things the Klan meant to do.

  AFTER SUPPER THAT night, I raised Carol Ann’s idea of an artificial arm for Dad.

  “I don’t know, Harry,” Gram said. “He fights everything people try to do for him. I know Uncle Lyle tried his best.”

  “But he didn’t try this.”

  “That’s right,” Ty said. “He didn’t, but how in the world can we get one?”

  Granddad sat working a toothpick in his mouth. “I expect you’ll have to write to the government. If you can get it from them, it won’t cost anything with him being a veteran.”

  “That’s true,” Gram said. “I guess there’s nothing to lose by trying. You might as well go ahead.”

  I found a piece of school tablet and sharpened a pencil with my penknife. Ty and I sat at the kitchen table and worked out the wording of a letter to the government. We asked for an artificial arm for our dad, Calvin Spencer, whose arm had been amputated in France during the war.

  Gram looked it over and said, “You’ll have to give them more information: you should tell them which arm it is. Put in his birthday so they can look him up. How about his middle name?”

  Ty and I stared at each other. Neither of us could think of his middle name. Ty drummed the pencil on the table for a moment and then popped up with it. “I remember,” he said. “It’s Edward. Calvin Edward Spencer. That’s how our brother Eddie got his name.”

  He added that to the letter.

  “You know, boys,” Gram said, “Maybe we should send the letter to Dr. Brunner to see if he can help.”

  It relieved me to hear her say that because it meant she was with us on the whole idea. Dr. Brunner knew Dad and would surely know what to do. Anyway, we didn’t know any addresses in Washington, D.C. It seemed like such a vast, faraway place. I doubted if anybody would even read our letter if we sent it there. My handwriting was better than Ty’s, so I copied it over as neatly as I could. Gram signed it, and I addressed an envelope to Dr. Brunner in Portlandville. The next morning I took it to the store for the postman.

  A stranger stood facing Granddad across the counter. Well, not a stranger really, but someone I didn’t know personally. It was the man who sat behind the table at the convocation, signing up members for the KKK. He was staying at Sally McVay’s, and I had seen him on her porch talking to my dad. He was big, mean looking, and he seemed to be all one color. His curly hair, cut short and plastered to his head with pomade, was tawny brown, the same color as his eyes. His skin was rough and weathered tan with deep pits from smallpox or something. Even though it was a hot day, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and a necktie, but it was plain to see how well muscled his arms were.

  He looked at Granddad standing behind the counter. “The sign outside says Mr. Alphonse Didder, Proprietor. Is that you?” There was a sneer in his voice.

  “It’s Didier, sir. How can I help you?” Granddad said.

  “Well, Mr. Alphonse Didderer.” Again he taunted with the tone of his voice. “I need a pound of coffee.”

  Buster, who was sleeping behind the counter, came out to sniff, and the hair on his back rose up a little. I went to the coffee grinder and commenced grinding.

  Granddad, who stood behind the counter, said, “You can just call me Alfie.”

  “What kind of a name is Alphonse Didderay, anyway?”

  I slowed down the grinder a little bit to listen, and when I did, the man turned to me, his tawny eyes flecked with gold. He looked bold and nasty.

  “Just keep grindin
g, kid. I’m in a hurry.” He turned back to Granddad. “What did you say it was?”

  “It’s French, I guess,” Granddad said.

  “You born there?”

  I could tell Granddad didn’t like the way this conversation was going. He kept fiddling with the charge book and his pencil.

  “Yes, but my folks brought me here when I was just a kid.”

  “So you’re not really American, I guess.”

  “I figure I am.” Granddad inched toward a baseball bat he kept behind the counter.

  “What goes on in the back room over there?” the man asked, jerking his thumb toward the bar.

  “Oh, I sell a little beer to my friends. Do you want some?” Granddad looked up with a sickly smile on his face. He was trying to be his usual friendly self, but his voice sounded nervous.

  “No, I don’t want any beer,” the man said. “It’s illegal to be selling beer. Don’t you know that? Haven’t you heard of Prohibition?”

  Granddad didn’t answer. I finished with the coffee and packaged it up. “That’ll be fifty-two cents,” I said, hoping he would pay up and leave. I stepped behind the counter and stood with Granddad.

  “Listen here, Alphonse. Have you joined the KKK yet?”

  The way he said Alphonse, I could tell he was still trying to belittle Granddad. I burned with resentment at his words.

  Granddad shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Hadn’t really planned to.”

  “Well, I think it would be in your best interest to join. This movement is big, and I’d think you would want to be a part of it. You being a businessman and all. It’d be better for your store and your family, don’t you think?” He leaned across the counter, his huge figure making Granddad shrink into himself. After a minute, he picked up his package of coffee and paid for it.

  “I’ll stop back in a couple of days and get you signed up. It costs fifteen dollars to join.”